When Will My Life Begin
by Aniphine
Summary: A songfic from Tangled about Charon working for Ahzrukhal before meeting the Lone Wanderer; super sad. Super backstory.


Ahzrukhal wasn't the first client to hold Charon's contract, but he was the first to make it an active punishment.

He supposed he'd earned it after the last client and the small detail of their dead child, which his contract said was his obligation to protect. He'd done his best, but math dictated that eventually he wouldn't weave or fire fast enough, and someone else would hit the dirt with dead eyes instead of him.

Charon didn't take it personally – or tried not to. In any case, Ahzrukhal didn't ask him to weigh in on whether he was deserving or not.

At first, Charon assumed that Ahzrukhal was keenly trying to bore, degrade, and generally make his life worth hating. Seeing as they both had a long eternity of agelessness stretched out in front of them – unless math found Ahzrukhal or finally caught up with Charon – it wouldn't end anytime soon. Though it didn't take long for Charon to notice that revenge had gotten old to his client, and that it was just a hobby now.

 **7 AM, the usual morning lineup**

Lucky for him, with a face like his, no one noticed if Charon was exhausted or contemplating eating their beating heart.

That made the bodyguard and bouncer portion of his job easy, along with years of practice that came as a natural product of a lifetime counted in centuries rather than decades. It was everything else Ahzrukhal ordered that grated on his nerves.

 **Start on the chores and sweep 'til the floor's all clean,**

 **Polish and wax, do laundry, and mop and shine up**

Charon had killed more people than times Ahzrukhal had rotated around the sun, yet with a command, his shotgun was dormant on his back and a broom was in his hand. With heavy armor, calloused hands, and various weapons attached to his legs, hips, and back, he went to work making the war-torn bar "look like something other than a rat's nest."

It was the bartender that gave that impression, Charon thought sourly, not the floor.

In his many years, he took pride in never once breaking a contract; and, for the majority, not even being tempted to. After the tedious work of organizing the storage area, repairing the weapons with slightly charred schematics as reference, and taking up yet another round of cleaning the bar – and then the neighboring shops if his client decided Charon's glare couldn't get any deeper...

He was sorely tempted.

 **Sweep again, and by then, it's like 7:15.**

The benefit of routine tasks was they were swiftly completed. The problem was it freed him up for whatever else Ahzrukhal could think up.

All those years ago, when Charon found himself resembling the horror that detonated with precision on every major city in the country, he'd been prepared for a life he hated. Especially when old age wouldn't end anything for him. No one wanted him for much of anything; except dying. The small group of survivors – the only ones who hadn't tried to kill him on sight – pointed out that the solution was in the problem.

Not dying, making sure others didn't die, and perhaps defeating the first objective with the second – not much of a lifestyle, but as they'd pointed out, the only choice for people like him. They were a fanatic group of cultists, but starving, alone, and injured with a contract in one hand and no future in the other, Charon hadn't been in any position to argue.

Charon had done his fair share of hating life, but Ahzrukhal brought a fascinating new level to the equation. The bombs had robbed him of everything, but not age, so he had nothing but time to kill – and occasionally people. Charon suspected Ahzrukhal kept the tasks diversified just to remind him he was on a leash.

 **And so I'll read a book, or maybe two or three**

Charon thumbed through a book in the decrepit library. He wasn't sure Ahzrukhal could read, but collecting books was the command.

He'd read this one in his youth, back when there was such a thing as an education system. The benefit of having a face like a monster is not being asked a lot of questions, especially when your main function is to shoot people. Charon's knowledge of the world before ruin stayed dormant – exactly where he wanted it. That life was dead, and besides him and a handful of others who hadn't been burned alive as monstrous demons, so was everyone from that time.

Charon was in no hurry to get back to Ahzrukhal, and scanned the pages he'd once scanned with clear eyes, healthy skin, and a few features that were currently missing. He'd just begun chapter two when the crack of gunfire split the air. The bag full of books found itself hitting the ground like a bag of rocks, and the novel in Charon's hand was discarded for his rifle. Literature forgotten in the old library, the purpose of the bookshelves was reinvented – as cover.

 **I'll add a few new paintings to my gallery**

Charon handed Ahzrukhal the pack of trinkets so insignificant that it'd taken him the better part of three days to find – not to mention an entire collection of ammo and four Stimpaks worth of effort. His client took it and dropped it behind the counter without a word and without thanks; in its place commanding Charon to venture to a rotten school's cafeteria, a day's journey away, to gather some forks. The place was invested with raiders, which Ahzrukhal knew – and knew that Charon knew – so the backhand of it wasn't lost on either of them.

With a face that could have meant disinterest or murder – or both, by this point – Charon turned around and went to fulfil the order.

 **I'll play guitar and knit, and cook and basically**

When tally started to meld into one, Charon recounted the general number of his clients by the scars their tasks had left behind. The one on his forearm was from the ghoul who had been a culinary artist before the bombs, and decided the search for ingredients was well worth the danger to both of them. The one on his collarbone was from the client who didn't fare well against the Murklark that wandered in their camp in the middle of the night. With the help of Stimpaks and the inherent removal of new injuries, Charon started to lose count altogether.

He wouldn't need such help to remember Ahzrukhal; the bastard knew how to make a unique impression.

Charon was two days hungry when he dropped the collection of broken instruments and casualwear that had kept him from sleep and food on the bar. Hoping to have at least a few hours to himself as a reward, Charon instead found Ahzrukhal making him into a waiter in addition to a scavenger, bodyguard, and bouncer. Apparently he was too bored – or assumed Charon wasn't bored enough – to fetch his own meal.

Charon was treated to the scent of roasted iguana, stomach turning with hunger, as he placed it in front of his client. Craving sleep like he craved a meal, Charon instead received a dismissive hand and the order to venture back out into the Wastes for more spirits to stock the bar. He looked at Ahzrukhal for a long moment, expression blank, then finally turned to obey.

 **Just wonder when will my life begin?**

Some days he indulged in the fantasy of breaking the bastard's neck and his contract with it. Unfortunately, the same reasoning that made him create the contract all those years ago kept it intact now; he wasn't worth much of anything without it. The alternative being wandering the Wastes, just another zombie, Charon accepted that immortality had found a new and creative way to bite him in the ass.

 **Then after lunch it's puzzles and darts, and baking**

He'd just solved the detailed puzzle of the locked safe when life gifted him a surprise that, while unexpected, was too routine to be interesting; gunfire. The Mutfruit he was eating the moment before was crushed underfoot as he dove for cover.

It didn't take long to run out of ammo, and he resorted to arming himself with a scavenged rifle that had seen better days. In its disrepair, the firefight shifted into an extreme and tedious game of darts with weak bullets lobbed in either direction. Retreating was the best idea, yet his contract and Ahzrukhal as an extension bound him to the stupid, bloody, and disadvantaged position. Once again.

He relented to the long-term tactic of taunting the raiders with his limited ammo into wasting theirs. It wouldn't take long by the sound of their gunfire; apparently junkies didn't get to stop for lunch either.

 **Paper mache, a bit of ballet and chess**

The fall should have broken his legs, but with a luckily timed roll and a ruined display case to break his impact, Charon managed to make it to his feet with all the grace of a dancer. If said dancer was followed by bullets pelting the storeroom floor behind them as they ran. He ducked under cover and listened. It was too dark to distinguish each one's position, but he could hear them – them and their great lumbering boots.

The opponents were addicts, so it wasn't exactly a game of chess, but it did require tactic. Some maneuvering, some well-thrown grenades, and a bullet clipping his left bicep, Charon remained intact, while the Jet users better resembled paper in the shape of a human, torn into several pieces. He took pride in a job well done, yet he knew as much as Ahzrukhal knew that the job was irrelevant, and the pointlessness was a punishment of its own.

 **Pottery and ventriloquy, candle making**

The building went up like a roman candle and Charon simply watched. The muffled echoes of screams ricocheted like broken glass from within the ruined art museum. It could have been considered a chess game to pin the raiders in there and leave them to this fate. Yet the important pieces resided in the Underworld – namely the client who sent Charon there to light the match.

This was just the pawns.

It wasn't the first questionable thing he'd ever done, and especially not for a client, but he felt more puppet than bodyguard as the heat radiate against his mangled features. Charon turned around, his objective burning and complete behind him, another meaningless trinket in his bag, and started his trek back to Ahzrukhal, knowing he was as much a pawn as the raiders.

 **Then I'll stretch**

Broken ribs didn't care how much work he had to do; they strained and bit and snarled as he rose from his cot, beginning another day he looked forward to the end of.

 **Maybe sketch**

Charon didn't know how to sketch before the bombs, and a couple of centuries later, he still didn't know. As poor and unentertaining as it was, it extended his time away from Ahzrukhal, making missions last a little longer and lengthening the minutes between maintenance and organizing in the Underworld. With the small hobby, he'd reach the end of the day with a little less desire to strangle his client; with an eternity of that awaiting him, he took his moments where he could find them.

Until said client took notice, and the list of reprieves Charon could find shortened to near nonexistent.

 **Take a climb, sew a dress**

His muscles still ached when he returned to Ahzrukhal, hands torn and stained with clotting blood. If he'd scaled that rock-face a little slower, he could have saved himself the injuries, but Ahzrukhal's newly implemented deadlines removed that option. _Inspires good work_ , the bastard had said, when he noticed Charon was taking longer than necessary on distant scavenging quests.

It also inspired fast work, which resulted in poor observance, sloppy firefights, and shrapnel embedded in Charon's shoulder blades. The contract said his life was expendable, even if it was for – as Ahzrukhal had deemed worthy – nightdresses. Though that was nothing new, so Charon didn't care. Nor did he care when Ahzrukhal complained about the lingerie's tattered condition.

The loathing settled in when Ahzrukhal demanded he repair them.

Armor was one thing, but frilly lace? Charon's face was straight as he stared at his client, boredom or murder, and dragged the sheer material back over the bar, turning to obey the command.

 **And I'll reread the books if I have time to spare**

Charon thumbed through library's shelves, tossing away the books peppered with bullet holes from his previous visit, and found the novel he'd skimmed through before. The trek there met fewer complications than expected, so deadline or no, Charon began the second chapter with the intention of enjoying a reprieve where he could find it. Four pages in, he had a hunch the main character would annoy him as much as the client awaiting him in the Underworld, but still had an interest in finding out.

The crack of a Hunting Rifle met his ears at the same time the wooden bookshelf's edge exploded, right beside his head. The literature in his hand hit the ground as fast as he did, and two heartbeats later, his shotgun had taken its place. Charon felt history repeating itself; indulgence and living didn't seem to mix well.

 **I'll paint the walls some more, I'm sure there's room somewhere**.

Charon angled his head at the crimson display in front of him. The blood was thicker in center, yet became lighter and thinner against the white wall where the brains of the raider had stained the paint.

He'd lost count of his clients, but long before that, he'd lost track of his kill count. At one point he imagined all that death would catch up with him, breaking his mind like any mass murderer of the old world. But it hadn't yet, and as Charon learned a long time ago, if the trap didn't spring, you didn't bother with it.

He turned, picking up his bag of books as he went.

 **And then I'll brush and brush, and brush and brush my hair**

 **Stuck in the same place I've always been.**

It'd been three days since Ahzrukhal asked him to fetch something, and while he didn't mind the lack of bullets in his general direction, watching people come and go reminded him of how time did the same. Breaking up petty fights – usually a product of Ahzrukhal treating customers the way he treated his bodyguard – did nothing to alleviate the boredom. The difference was a contract didn't stand between him and them, yet Charon had to.

Clumps of hair came out as Charon ran his hand across his scalp. He looked at it with displeasure. Then he sighed, wiping his hand clean on his pant leg and resuming his place leaned against the wall to look as disinterested as possible. It was a skill he'd learned as a bodyguard for three hundred years, and one he continued though the blotches of raw skin on his body expanded and the weapon hanging from his shoulder changed throughout the years.

 **And I'll keep wonderin' and wonderin', and wonderin', and wonderin'**

The short girl and her dog that came wandering in looked out of place; he could tell by her lighter skin, her somewhat well-kept hair, and the Pipboy on her wrist that she was new to the world. He watched her as she approached Ahzrukhal, noting the assault rifle on her back, yet she hardly seemed threatening. The weapon looked poorly oiled, the barrel rusted, and even the iron sights were slightly out of place. In a quick glimpse, habit had Charon's mind flickering over the maintenance he could apply, before lack of interest dampened it.

He kept a faint eye on her, should she start something with his client, but mainly dismissed the routine interaction from his attention. She didn't return on his radar until she'd walked over to him. He realized the paper in her hand was his contract – tinged with bloodstains far older than her, far older than Ahzrukhal – and another client had been added to the record he'd stopped keeping.

An unusual development. But not an unwelcome one.

Charon greeted her in the generic fashion he'd greeted countless clients, excused himself with renewed professionalism, and took his shotgun from where it had been sitting dormant on his back. When he unloaded a round into the bastard he was no longer obligated to keep alive, Charon felt the first spark of satisfaction in a long, long time. Ahzrukhal's head splattered against the floor and wall, and with it all the stupid and unnecessary days of Charon's life that had been wasted under his service.

Charon might have been a pawn, but Ahzrukhal was careless to forget that the sole thing keeping him from Charon's level was that piece of paper he'd just sold.

When he turned back to the girl, the shock on her face was as obvious as an open book. He could tell in one look that she was a pawn, no different from any of them, but just didn't know it yet. She held the contract and herself in a way that showed potential, and maybe if he could keep her alive long enough, she'd do something with that potential. Or not. It was just another job, so it mattered little to Charon either way.

Her expression shifted from the blatant shock to something else after a moment. She cleared her throat and with a touch of awkwardness, invited him to follow her; a command he obeyed mechanically. He assumed the second emotion was fear, which was to be expected after he shot his previous client in the head… but it didn't quite line up on the edges to be fear. Respect? Surprise?

Admiration? Charon scoffed internally. Silly kid.

Though naiveté was at least different from Ahzrukhal. With luck, he wouldn't be bored out of his skull.

 **When will my life begin?**


End file.
